No lab for old men.

CHAPTER 1

A lot of things had been said about these laboratories across North Texas. How many people drove hours across the threadbare Northern Plains, through Comanche Indian burial grounds, to get gastric bypass and a little liposuction. The surgeons around these parts had no pathologist. The hospital regulators would swoop in every 2-years just to make sure there weren’t any rogue podiatrists trying to do hemi-pelvectomies on these poor unsuspecting country patients. The general surgeons dint have much turf left. Especially on those sleeve gastrectomies. Most of the time they would just chuck em in the waste basket. Nobody out here in these rural towns to read the slides anyways. Nobody until now.

Jimmy Tan graduated in the middle of the bell curve at UT. He was a happy guy. Everyone around him was happy too. There was nothing unhappy about this guy. A devote Methodist and the son of a Taiwanese Air Force Pilot. Johnny finished a residency and became on of the rising stars in the laboratory medicine game. His career was a straight shot. Recruited by the big private lab over on the East Side of town. He spent 8 happy years at Cab Lab and was a shoe-in for partnership.

The Scene: At the December Holiday Party in the Cab Lab Headquarters ballroom. 45 pathologists are dressed in flowing dresses and black ties. There is a large bowl of orange punch at the end of the long snack table. A gray-haired lady with menacing wide-eyes, pink shoes and a cowboy hat is holding up the punch line. Jimmy is on the other end of the table with his friend, Ron Jagoff.

Ron: This lady again.

Jimmy: These potatoes cakes are fantastic.

Ron: Have you tried the beef tatake?

Jimmy: Trying to cut back on beef.

Ron: Wife cheat on you again?

Jimmy: Quite the opposite. We are having our 2nd child.

Ron: Great job.

Jimmy: This is a big moment for me. Why are you always such a douchebag?

Ron: Sorry. I need a drink and this lady with the cowboy hat is having an annoying conversation in front of the punch bowl.

Jimmy: Why is it an annoying conversation?

Ron: Why are you always so happy?

Jimmy: Why don’t you just politely ask her to move so you can get some punch?

Ron: I can’t do that Jimmy and you know I can’t do that.

Jimmy: Oh because of that restraining order situation after the Super Bowl 4-years ago with he Hair Dresser.

Ron: Yea whatever.

Jimmy: Do you still have to wear that ankle bracelet?

Ron: Shut up man.

Jimmy: Dude just go ask her to move.

Ron: No, something bad will happen and I will get accused of being toxic or harassment. This shit always happens to me.

Jimmy: So you’re just going to sit here and be annoyed instead of going up there and getting some punch.

Ron: You don’t know the pressure I’m under.

Jimmy: Ron you are single with two cats and a hedgehog. What kind of pressure are you talking about?

Ron: Hedgehogs are emotionally complicated animals, Jimmy.

Jimmy: Enough of this. I’ll go get us some punch.

Chapter 2.

Jimmy had been offered an interview at a small boutique lab down the street, in the distance and through the packs of well-mannered call-girls along Harry Hines Blvd. The asphalt was hot today. You could see those wavy lines pillowing off the deck like blistered spirits. This was it. He’d spent 6-years of training for this interview and he wasn’t going to blow it. His suit was pressed and dry-cleaned. He had a fresh Thermos of coffee brewed from special beans he’d set aside from his anniversary. He sits down on a side-walk bench with chipped green paint under a large birch tree.

Call-girl: Hey baby. What’s up?

Jimmy: Oh (nervously shifts gaze) hello.

Call-girl: You gotta date?

Jimmy: As a matter of fact I do. An interview.

Call-girl: Well look at you, Honey. You gonna tell me where?

Jimmy: Oh (glances at watch). Actually at the lab down there.

Call-girl: Scab Lab?

Jimmy: Yes. You know the place?

Call-girl: All of us do baby. How do you think we get tested out here?

Jimmy: That makes perfect sense.

Call-girl: My Aunt had breast cancer a few years ago. Bad one too. Doc said it was a Grade 3 Invasive Ductal with a 9 mm macro metastasis in her right axillary lymph node. Funny thing is the met showed an aberrant E-cadherin expression which raised the possibility of a second primary. We were pretty freaked out. As you know, most studies observe a retained E-cadherin expression in almost all Ductal cancers but you can get decreased or granular expression with poor differentiation and high tumor grade. I mean usually when we talk about lobular cancers you’re looking at a dispersed growth pattern with infiltration around the background benign ducts. But the H&E morphology of my cancer was clearly ductal. Now, there is some basic science work coming out of Invitrogen where they say the Zinc-finger transcription factors SLUG & SNAIL can actually repress the express of the E-cadherin molecule in vitro but as you know this is an active are of research. Back in the late 1990s they thought E-cadherin was gospel when it came to ductal versus lobular but that paradigm is slowly getting unhinged. I’m more interested in potential molecular targets for these Grade 3 Basal-like tumors. Anyways. You got a smoke?

Jimmy: (Dumbfounded) You want some of my coffee?

Call-girl: Sure baby thanks - but I don’t have a mug. (Leaning forward, her rich breasts grazing Jimmy’s shoulder).

Jimmy: (Slack-jawed) Its okay. Take the Thermos.

Call-girl: You’re sweet. (Takes a sip) I’m Rita (Extends hand).

Jimmy: I’m Jimmy.

Rita: You make this coffee at home? Its good.

Jimmy: How do you know all this stuff about Pathology.

Rita: I can read, Honey. And my sister’s a Pathologist. I was Pre-Med in College but then I got married early, and then divorced and then the pandemic happened. I was making more between this free-lancing gig and my OnlyFans. So I said screw it - we don’t need 2 Doctors in the family.

Chapter 3

Frank Delia grew up in North Chicago to an Irish-Italian family with 4 brothers and 3 sisters. He was in the middle where most good Catholics stop counting. He was tall, athletic and lettered in 3 sports in High School before his senior year. That was the year his father Joe took an engineering job with an oil & gas infrastructure company in Dallas. As a natural athlete and academic he adjusted to the abrupt social change better than most kids would’ve. Frank knew whatever he chose to do in life, it would likely be in a quiet office behind stacks of books.

His admission to medical school happened almost accidentally when the Deans Office lost his application. When he called to inquire, the secretary, succumbing to his naturally soothing manner of questioning related a series of symptoms which Frank probed, ultimately diagnosing her with multiple sclerosis over the phone. He made this diagnosis casually, whilst driving and listening to NPR’s Morning Edition. Frank was a savant.

You wouldn’t be able to tell because of his tall, athletic avatar. But that’s it, it was an avatar. The real Frank was a different kind of guy. He’d been on a few dates, mostly set-ups by his older sisters when they lived in Chicago, but now he was in Texas surrounded by the macho Cowboy and Frat-boy culture. In his last year of College he is at the local YMCA shooting hoops, waiting for his last round of transcripts to go through to the medical school.

There is a group of 5-guys on one end of the basketball court and the place has the classic smell of rubber and wood. Like those old Hoosier courts from that Gene Hackman movie everyone’s heard about but nobody actually ever saw. The court echoes with well-aired basketballs, dribbling, rebounding and colliding with other basketballs as the collegiate intramural kids practice screens and setups.

Guy 1: Can you believe we only have 1-year left?

Guy 2: Of College?

Guy 1: Yea. I was planning on playing for the Rockets but then my knee started giving me issues.

Guy 2: What kind of knee issues?

Guy 1: The kind that makes me undraftable.

Guy 3: Its called a torn meniscus.

Guy 1: Well technically its not torn.

Guy 2: Then what is it?

Guy 1: I dunno. They offered me surgery.

Guy 3: What were they going to repair if it wasn’t actually torn.

Guy 2: I bet they could find something in there to repair.

Guy 1: I wasn’t about to let some Ortho Resident start debriding my knee.

Frank: (Over hears) You may want to get an MRI on that knee. (Ambles over to their side of the court, casually dribbling a basketball, then pops it up from his knee to the back of his neck, then spins it on his finger, in a playful display of skill).

Guy 3: (Whispers) What’s this guy talking about?

Guy 2: Its 1987 numb nuts, MRIs haven’t been invented. What are you from the future or something?

Guy 1: Don’t I know you from somewhere?

Frank: MRIs are changing the landscape of diagnostic imaging. Soon, they will be essentially mandatory for anyone undergoing surgical evaluation.

Guy 1: That’s right, you’re the guy from Chicago who got into med school down town by making some wild diagnosis over the phone.

Guy 2: Why don’t you take that Chicago medicine and leave it up by the steel mills in Gary.

Frank: Is that intended to be an insult. (Calmly shoots one-handed free-throw over their heads, easily sinking it through the net).

One of the qualities attached to Frank’s unusually high intelligence quotient was an aloofness that made him virtually unassailable through traditional means of verbal warfare.

Frank: (Looks at guy 2) What’s your name string bean.

Guy 2: Jefferson.

Frank: Are you a deep thinker, Jefferson? Are you into paradoxically into philosophy and slavery? (Dashes around Jefferson, does a spin move and sinks and easy lay-up).

Guy 1: Game on suckers.

The four students play an intense game of 2 on 2 in the old bleacher hall. Squeaks of high-top shoes echoing against the asbestos-lined walls and ceilings. There was a tall set of bleachers on the North side and it went up some 4-stories. The south side was lower. That’s where they rested their gym bags. Nobody looked up at the north side. There was a row of lights out on the tops set of bleachers. A dim ray of sun pierced through the bands of old dust floating put here. A lonely sparrow flew in and out, seemingly looking for something. And in the darkest corner was an old man in striped coveralls with long gray hair and a spider-web tattoo on his left forearm. He was sitting up there was an old transistor radio, a Panasonic from 1973 which crackled over the score of what sounded like an Astros game.

Then the game on the old mans radio switched to an unexpected opera soundtrack. It sounded like German but could’ve been Italian as far as the intramural basketball players cared. The music was muffled through the sounds of breathing, swishing hoops and shouting as the students approached a final score of 44 to 38, with Frank and Guy 1 about the close the deal.

Frank: (To is new teammate) If I’d known it was going to be this easy we coulee gotten some cash involved.

Guy 1: Heads up Frank (Passes the ball aggressively).

Frank: 3-2- (Tosses up a fade-away) ONE. Swish.

And with that final basket a hissing noise came from the dark corner of the north-side bleachers. The old man was standing now with his transistor radio and now there were some 20 sparrows flying in and out of the old window with an eery ray of light and cloud of dust. The radio spewed a garbled opera melody which began to fill the gymnasium. The dust particles gathered into a cloud which slithered down the bleacher stairs and onto the court. And as those particles gathered in the afternoon sun that seeped in through the large canvas-like windows on either end of the court, the ground started to rumble.

Guy 3: What’s going on.

Frank: No idea fellas, hit the deck, it feels like an earthquake.

Jefferson: You idiots hit the deck, I’m getting out of here.

Jefferson takes off in a weakly athletic spring across the glossy floor, losing his footing every 3rd step. And as he crossed the opposing 3-point line the court began to rumble louder and a colossal chasm split down the center line. The collegiate size wooden floor of the university gymnasium split like a seam down the middle in a horrifying cascade of crumbling concrete and ash. The boys started coughing violently and scraped with their spindly legs to scoot themselves away from the rapidly expanding seam, and within seconds it was becoming a canyon. Jefferson’s last ditch escape attempt was in utter futility as his foot became trapped under concrete slabs and he sunk deeper into the chasm under the basketball net closest to the large double doors of the gymnasium entrance. He was the closest of the four to safety and oddly the closest to disaster.

The boys watched in horror as Jefferson clawed desperately with his fingernails to climb up, now with bleeding fingers and palms. The earth was shaking and debris was falling from the gymnasium ceiling. Old banners and pennants from years past from when the Mustangs were actually good. Jefferson had never known fear like this. A warm stream of urine careened down his left pant leg and deeper still into the chasm, which was now forming an irregular staircase arcing around the sides. The opera music from where the old man was sitting on the north side of the bleachers was now screaming at the boys, who are now mostly in tears - except Frank.

Franks eyes rolled back as the earth rumbled and heaved. He had scooted himself into a flexed posture and his legs were in a spasm of contracture. The boys called to him, but their attention shifted to Jefferson who was hanging on for his life. None of them knew how deep the chasm ran. None of them could believe their eyes.

Chapter 4

Paulo grew up in Cedar Rapids, Iowa around farm boys and 4-H people. Never liked it. Everywhere he went he was looking for a way out. The big city is where he wanted to be. Paulo was the only Spanish kid in his elementary school, high school, college and medical school. By the time he joined a private practice in San Antonio, Texas he was sick of being the only brown person. These days he didn’t have that problem. He was home.

The Scene: In the basement pathology offices. The secretaries are bringing out peanut brittle, cup-cakes, giant cookies, chips & salsa, ice cream, hot dogs, cheeseburgers, orange soda, pork belly and a 6 gallon tub of Laffy taffy for a midmorning snack.

Paulo: How am I going to get a six pack in this place. (Thought bubble)

Sheila: Hey Dr. P. Can you get some breakfast?

Paulo: You are sweet. I had a bowl of oatmeal at home already. Next time.

Sheila: Suit yourself Dr. P. Say did you get the fax I left in your office?

Paulo: Heading there right now. Thanks Sheila.

Paulo worked his way through the lab conference room and arrives at his office. There is a thin layer of dust on his microscope again. Forget the fax. But that just came in from overnight. It's a pale white powder, barely noticeable to the naked eye. Paulo has been stewing over this for six months. Every weekend he forgets to put that microscope cover on.

After 10 minutes of intense dusting he reaches over to his inbox.

To: Dr. Paulo Saldana.

From: W.E. Smashadoc Cancer Center.

Paulo: Fuck. A slide request. What did I miss.

Siri: I’m sorry, I didn’t get that.

Paulo: (Slams iPhone down) Not you too, Siri.

Sheila: (Pokes head in the door) Who are you talking to in here Doc?

Paulo: Oh nobody Sheila. It’s W.E. Smashadoc with another slide request. These things always make me nervous.

Sheila: You want me to call the GI doc?

Paulo: No that’s okay. Let me look at the case again.

Sheila: Let me get you some coffee honey. Cream?

Paulo: Please and thanks.

Paulo opens the slide tray and starts looking at the case. The requisition says: 60-year-old man with “Visit for screening colonoscopy; polyps of the colon.” Specimens: Container A is labeled “Transverse colon polyps, 2x polyps, 3x biopsies (?stomach antrum), 2 more polyps, half-a-polyp, and also please do H. Pylori and look for mast cells.”

Paulo: This is insane.

Sheila: Here’s that coffee Dr. P.

Paulo: You’re such a sweetheart.

Sheila: Is it that guy from El Paso again?

Paulo: Sshh.. WhatsApp is listening.

Sheila: Oh I’m sorry baby. You know how I get excited.

Paulo: I think I know what’s going on. This guy had a couple serrated polyps but they were mixed up with some other polyps. I wasn’t sure if it was 1 polyp or 2. Whatever, let me show Drew.

Sheila: Don’t forget that lung biopsy from Friday, they want to send that down to the cancer center too.

Paulo: The one where the immunostains were inconsistent?

Sheila: Yes (looks apprehensive).

Paulo walks over to Drew’s office. Drew is the new guy from California. He talks like a Californian but has an oddly libertarian slant in all of his lunch conversations. Paulo is still feeling him out, but figures the guy is probably alright.

Drew did some of his fellowship at Smashadoc Cancer Center so he probably has an idea what goes on there. This place prides themselves on findings sneaky cancers from community hospitals where the pathologist missed something. On the interstate there is a glowing billboard half-way to Austin with a dancing oncologist.

The sign reads: “At Smashadoc, we are on a mission to destroy cancer. If we can’t destroy your cancer, we will destroy something else.” Paulo could’ve sworn the oncologist on that sign had those Bitcoin red laser eyes.

Drew’s office door is ajar. Paulo creeps around the corner.

Drew: (On the phone) So there I was, balls-deep in this hookers a—

Paulo: Well, well - so sorry to interrupt.

Drew: (Wraps up phone call) I gotta go.

Paulo: Oh no, by all means continue. I’m enjoying this.

Drew: Yea yea, what’s going on play-boy. What can I help you with this fine morning.

Paulo: (Sits down on the couch) I’ve got this set of polyps.. and also this lung biopsy they want to send down to Smashadoc cancer center.

Drew: Ahh Haha. That’s murder bro. So what do you got? Adenocarcinoma or something.

Paulo: Yea well, just take a look. Its squamous cancer.

Drew: but its lighting up for TTF-1.

Paulo: I think its the SPT clone. It cross-reacts with 3% of squamous lung cancers.

Drew: Seriously? Educate me brother.

Paulo: They use the G3 clone at the Leland Clinic in Ohio. There’s a big lung pathologist up there who makes YouTube videos about this kind of thing. Dude is awesome.

Drew: Have you run this by Frank?

Paulo: I probably should. He hasn’t come out of his office in 72-hours. I think he’s in the zone.

Drew: He’s gonna want to see this. Didn’t he validate our TTF-1 antibody?

Paulo: I always feel weird knocking on his door when he’s in the zone.

Drew: What’s the worst that will happen?

Paulo: You were on vacation the last time this happened.

Drew: What happened?

Paulo: Nah I shouldn’t talk about it.

Drew: What happened?

Paulo: Nah I shouldn’t talk about it.

Drew: Oh come on - Now you gotta tell me.

Paulo: (Shuts the door) Okay fine (crouches down, lowers voice).

Last summer, before you got here, we had a crazy couple of weeks. They told you we lost that girl from Louisiana, right? So we were already short-staffed.

Drew: I thought we were short-staffed now.

Paulo: Nah this is nothing. We were short-short-staffed. Think Mugsy Bogues short-staffed. Anyways, we had 2-weeks back-to-back where the slide count was like 850. And on of the PAs had a seizure and the other one’s cat had a stroke. So 2 of the partners were in there grossing placentas.

Drew: No shit?

Paulo: Yea man there was blood everywhere. So at the end of this gauntlet the 2 PAs come back and finally 3 of the surgeons left for some meeting and the slide count came back to earth. Haven’t felt that relieved since the end of Path Boards.

Drew: And then what happened? (Leans forward, sipping coffee).

Paulo: Frank hadn’t come out of his office in 4-days. Nobody even saw him go to the bathroom. I mean I knew he was hardcore introverted and basically a savant-genius pathologist, but everyone has their breaking point. I guess his wife was back in Japan visiting family so nobody was around to check on him.

Eventually the group VP, Jan, notices something is up so she knocks on his door at like 3 in the afternoon on a Wednesday. No answer. So she knocks again, louder. This time 2 of us gathered around the door. No answer. So I call facilities. After like 20-minutes, this dude walks in the office back door. Big guy. Brown ropers and plaid shirt. He seemed to know his way around the place. His name badge said Arturo. Jan made eye contact with him as he reached down to find the master key from the key ring on his right belt loop. I can still those keys jingling in my head.

Drew: And then what happened. Hurry up this is making me want to pee.

Paulo: Arturo, or “Arty” as they call him, finds the right key and puts it in the door knob and slowly twists it open. The lock was stuck so it took a minute. Jan was getting any so she started shoving on the door. Then the door swung open and all you could see was a pile of AFIP books and a stack of slide trays up to the ceiling. There was an old camping cot on the left side of the office next to the bookshelf. You could smell a layer of sweat and grime all over the room.

Frank was behind his microscope and he was just sitting in a weird posture. Jan called out to him. He just sat there with one arm out as if he was reaching for another slide tray. His phone was off the hook and his Windows screen saver was swirling in the background. Jan looked at us and said, “Oh fuck, he’s catatonic again.” Sheila walked in about then and said, “Oh man does anyone have the medicine from last time?”

Drew: Last time?

Paulo: Apparently it happened before in 1993, right before the Orange Bowl.

Drew: That’s an insane level of detail bro - how do you remember all of this?

Paulo: I’m traumatized. We had to help the EMTs pick him up and the guys as covered in sweat and urine.

Drew: Did he sign out all of his cases?

Paulo: Every last one. Jan pulled up his CoPath account and the guy dictated some 250 gallbladders. Now she checks his account every time the number gets over 100.

Drew: So did they figure out what precipitates his catatonic episodes?

Paulo: Nobody knows. They assume stress. Frank gets real pissed if anyone brings it up. I think he’s in denial.

Drew: They definitely don’t want to lose him. Dude is the backbone of this practice. He’s the 2nd incarnation of Juan Rosai.

Chapter 5

Jimmy finished the last cubes of cheese with the residual crumbs of potato cakes on his plate. He took the white cocktail napkin from under his plate and reached up with his left hand, gently wiping his upper and lower lips, forgetting a large string bean had been lodged in his incisors. That fragment of string bean had been in his tooth since lunch and its a shame he didn’t remember to get a tooth pick. Now he was in the cocktail line. Jimmy had to uphold his responsibility to the Cab Lab circle of trust and fill the cups with orange punch. He puts down his plate and walks over to the punch bowl where the loud woman wearing a Cowboy hat is entertaining two other people.

Jimmy: Hello, mind if I slide past your Cowboy hat and get some punch?

Lady: Is it that big (Smiles).

Jimmy: I don’t know why I said that. I meant to say - slide past You. I don’t know why I placed emphasis on your loud, slightly obnoxious cowboy hat.

Lady: You’re doing it again Jimmy. You sound like Ron over there with all these micro-aggressions. Isn’t he the guy with the hedgehog?

Jimmy: How’d you know my name? And its technically not his hedgehog, its from this girl he dated in medical school. I’m surprised the animal is still alive. But yes its nice to meet you — (Pauses, waiting for her name).

Lady: Phyllis. But everyone around here calls me Tilly. So what brings you over to this side of the room?

Jimmy: Pleasure to to meet you Tilly. I’m here to refill the punch for Ron and myself, but I can see its running low.

The Cab Lab CEO busts in..

His name is Rory.

Rory: Jagoff? What’s the big guy up to these days. I gotta come check in more often. Feel like I never get to say Hi to you guys. You’re the backbone of this practice.

Jimmy: Hello Rory. Thanks for the party. You need some punch?

Rory: I’m good but I see you do (points to empty cup). And it appears we are running low.

Tilly: You bet yer boots we are. Rory come on now, you can’t throw a Christmas party with no punch.

Jimmy: Its quite alright, You know what there’s enough for two cups here.  Well its been great meeting you both. Hate to drink and run but, you know. Nature calls.

Jimmy doesn’t wait for Rory, the CEO, or Tilly the affable Texan to respond, he swiftly grabs the two glasses and starts walking to the mens room.

Jimmy slid out of that cocktail hour doing a smooth walk you sometimes see gymnasts do at the Olympics. Low to the ground. Kneeling, almost lunging. The vice grip of social anxiety had been creeping over him for the last hour listening to industry people. The drinks helped. He always felt like he was out of the loop. It was enough just keeping up with the latest advances in breast pathology. The oncologists want to throw Her2 on anything with a nucleus. There was a time in residency where he was good at the arithmetic involved in appraising new assays. That muscle had begun to atrophy. And then there was his wife. She was dead set of having another kid. Last month he’d checked the credit card bill and there was $8000 from the fertility clinic down the street. This is what pissed him off the most.

Jimmy: (Muttering to himself while gliding down the hallways of Cab Lab). We didn’t even use the in vitro method. This was for like 2 months of Clomid. Where to they get off charging that kind of money?

Ron: What kind of money?

Jimmy: (Jumps, startled, spilling one of the punch glasses on his pant leg and on his shoe). Jagoff. How’d you get here.

Ron: I walked. Let me get that glass of punch (Swipes the non-spilled glass from Jimmy’s hand).

Jimmy: (Stares blankly).

Ron: (Sips glass lazily) Saw you over there talking to Rory. You make partner early or something (Lets out a high-pitched siren of flatus).

Jimmy: Can you not do that here.

Ron: Sorry. Probably that cottage cheese from last night. Don’t normally buy that stuff.

Jimmy: You watch some Arnold documentary again. Hitting the weights?

Ron: Jimmy you know I’m always in the mass-building phase.

Jimmy: You know the real body builders on Venice Beach actually lift the weights in addition to eating cottage cheese.

Ron: Jimmy your judgmental attitude is not productive. Diet is 80% of the game. Probably closer to 90%.

Jimmy: Whatever. I need to take a leak. Hold this. (Hands Ron the 2nd glass)

Jimmy rounded the corner into the mens bathroom. It was one of those slick corporate airport style designs. The white tiles extended to the entry way. A couple snake plants in the corner. The air-conditioning wafted the crips aroma of fresh urinal cakes. That was one things they didn’t skimp on at Cab Lab. Only the finest urinal cakes. He glanced at himself in the mirror and continued over the urinals and let it rip. It was the high-pressure white, well-hydrated urine assaulting the fresh pink urinal cake. You know that pent-up urine from when you break the seal after the first couple rounds of cocktails.

He’d been standing at the urinal for about 45-seconds. He noticed a drain grill about two feet to the right on the floor. At first Jimmy wasn’t paying attention. A static sound was coming from the drain with a mixture of channel flipping noises Jimmy hadn’t heard since he was maybe 6-years old. A mixture of country music and sports announcers. It caught Jimmy’s ear by now but he wasn’t scared, possibly because of the alcohol in his system. He was curious.

Jimmy: Why is there music coming from the drain. It’s like somebody with an old transistor radio is just hanging around in the pipes.

Drain Pipe: .. (eerie music and static rising up from the drain).

Jimmy: I still got a little pee left. Here goes nothing. (Aims his stream of urine 2-feet to the right and into the drain pipe).

Drain Pipe: (Sound flickers and 3 small insects scurry out of the drain).

Jimmy: (Out of urine, zips up his fly) What’s going on down there..

Drain Pipe: (Rattles) Grrr.

Jimmy crouches down and inspects the drain pipe. Then he feels a rumbling through his palms as they lay flat on the bathroom tile. Jimmy knew something was about to happen. He stands back.

Then in a sequential eruption of concrete and bathroom tile, the drain pipe explodes like a Hawaiian volcano towards the ceiling sprinklers. Jimmy is blown back towards the wall. He lands on his side and looks toward the drain pipe, now with a gaping concrete hole below and a settling pile of dust. The sides of the hole, still lined with residual intact tiles now show two large, black humanoid hands covered with black and gray hair. The hands shuffle around and grip the sides of the concrete hole as Jimmy fades out of consciousness.

Jimmy wakes up 5-minutes later and sees a male silverback gorilla bent over, scraping some bubble gum from off the bathroom tiles about a foot away from him. Jimmy lets out a shriek of terror and jumps to his feet. The gorilla lets out a roar and shows his teeth. The gorilla grabs Jimmy by the throat and chest, pinning him against eye wall about 6-feet high.

Gorilla: Are you the the asshole who peed on me?

Jimmy: (Whimpering) Nnnuh nnn no.

Gorilla: Really Chairman Mao? (Shakes him and shucks him up against he bathroom tile).

Jimmy: Mao? That’s super racist. And why are you choking me?

Gorilla: So you did piss in the drain, didn’t you.

Jimmy: Okay fine I peed down the drain but only because there was some creepy noise coming from a transistor radio or something. Come on man, put me down.

Gorilla: (Drops Jimmy to the floor) Fine. But that’s not just any radio.

Jimmy: Owww. (Puts his hand on his hip, rubbing a bruise as he rises to his feet).

Gorilla: That radio sustained me. Its a 1973 Panasonic dual wave radio. Its been my only connection to the outside world.

Jimmy: Where’d you learn to talk?

Gorilla: From the radio. Between that and the occasional Sunday paper that gets tossed down here. (Gorilla is starting to calm down).

Jimmy: How’d you get here. Or down there, specifically.

Ron, lazily walks into the bathroom, biting into a crisp apple. He stops, looks at the Gorilla and Jimmy talking with his jaw dropped open, with pieces of apple pulp tumbling down his shirt and onto the white bathroom tile.

Jimmy: Ron, its not what you think. (In a comically feminine intonation).

Gorilla: What's that supposed to mean. I’m the victim here. (Backs away momentarily).

Jimmy: There was a noise coming from the drain pipe and then the floor exploded and this Gorilla jumped out. I was unconscious for the last 5 minutes. (Turns to Gorilla). By the way, how’d you pull that off?

Gorilla: I got some plastic explosives from my Orangutan friend at the Dallas Zoo last year. Remember that break-in that made the papers? Yea that was us. I was waiting for the right time to use it and then you peed on my radio. (Glares at Jimmy, still visibly annoyed).

Ron: Wait a minute. What’s happening. Why is there a talking Gorilla in the Cab Lab bathroom.

Gorilla: Is that what they’re calling this place now?

Jimmy: How long have you been down there?

Gorilla: Since the Carter Administration, I believe.

Ron: What’s. Your name?

Gorilla: My lab name was A6MO.

Jimmy: A6M0.. Where have I heard that before?

Gorilla: Its the Zero. The Mitsubishi A6M0, the nimble Japanese fighter airplane that initially cut its teeth during the 1940-41 conflict with China. They wiped out Chiang Kai-shek’s Air Force and not a single Japanese A6M0 was lost. Recovered pilots diaries from the first half of World War II recount the plane “handled like a dream, changing direction and airspeed with the flick of the wrist.” They called me A6M0, Zero for short, because I was supposed to be the lab animal that never went down. (Gorilla gazes mysteriously out the frosted bathroom wall window).

Jimmy: Oh that’s right, Cab Lab has the most comprehensive immunohistochemistry menu in all of Texas.

Ron: More like all of the South.

Gorilla: More like from here to Alaska. Guys Cab Lab is the big leagues.

Jimmy: But I thought they used mouse or rabbit serum for their antibodies. Why would they need you?

Gorilla: Come on man, you know what’s been going on with these new soft tissue tumors. They have 5 new recurrent gene fusions identified since the last WHO classification.

The lab that develops the first surrogate immunostain takes home the prom queen.

Ron: You messed up that Sean Connery line, by the way. Its “fu—

Jimmy: Ron can you forget about Sean Connery quotes for one day. We’ve got a giant talking Gorilla here. You sure you want us to call you “Zero”?

Gorilla: Actually, call me Chaz.

Ron: Okay Chaz. You still haven’t told us how you wound up here.

Chapter 6

Frank, Jefferson and the boys were stranded in the SMU gymnasium on Saturday. They shared the gym with an unknown Comanche Indian shaman with a 1973 Panasonic transistor radio. An earthquake was unfolding before their horrified eyes. On the East end of the court, Jefferson was dangling from the ledge over a 30-foot drop into a dark brown chasm with water vapor rising from the unknown depths and a thick oily substance seeping from the walls. Jefferson began frantically reciting the Lords Prayer between tears of fear and grasps of air.

A low groan of shifting earth rose from the west side of the court. But it was more than earth. It sounded like a being of some sort. A subterranean being. A demon. The gymnasium grew hot. The groaning demon voice grew with the strength of some large unspeakable mammal from another age. The other two boys were on opposite sides of the bleachers, whimpering and clinging to scaffolding. Their knuckles white with effort. They looked across the chasm at one another, meeting eyes. Guy 1, Sean opens his mouth as if to warn his friend of something. His vocal cords seize up with fear. No words came out.

Frank was waking up from his catatonic state. His chin covered in his own saliva. His right leg stretched off the side of the earthen chasm wall like some anglers bait.

Frank: (Groggily) Holy mackerel. How’d we get here.

Jefferson: Help. I don’t want to die. Please help me.

Frank: Hang in there string bean. We’ll figure this out. Hey, you guys okay over there (Looks at Sean and Guy 2).

Sean: I don’t know what’s going on Man but I think we’re done for.

Guy 2: (Yells from the North bleachers ) Frank I didn’t get a chance to meet you before the game. My names Bobby.

Frank: This is an odd time for introductions, Bobby, but it’s a pleasure.

Bobby: Is there any rope on your side?

Frank: No but I’ve got 2 strips of beef jerky and some Tang.

Jefferson: (Frantic, tearful) Can you guys be serious?

Sean: Look there’s a hole opening up on the back wall.

Frank: Isn’t that the side facing the water main off Harry Hines Blvd?

The earth heaved and crumbled with the chasm growing ever-larger down the centerline of the basketball court. It grew wider with every minute, threatening to bring down the bleachers on either side. The floor of the chasm was narrow. A crevasse. The black depths of which none could ascertain. There was a deeper layer. Frank caught a glimpse of it. It was a steaming flow of black-brown fluid. In its flowing fury, it had the texture of lava. At the far end of the court, the shale-lined walls of the chasm were vibrating. There was something behind the wall.

In a violent circular motion, a tunnel opened up from the far wall. The side facing Harry Hines Blvd. It produced a thick cloud of water vapor, earth and an oily substance. Three figures emerged through the haze. Two of them were mechanical. Like some cyborg Cujo. The third was a worker dressed head to toe in HazMat gear. Covered in a layer of soot. The worker was wearing night vision goggles with an eery red-green backlight. The worker was ambling forward, menacingly. He had a walkie-talkie at his right hip and a high-pressure steam hose in his left arm. It gave the look of a soldier in a chemical zone. The basketball court grew silent but for the heavy drone of the subterranean river of God knows what. He paused and waved his arm about, in an attempt to clear some of the vapor cloud around him. He pulled off his mask and goggles. The worker had a thick brown beard and raccoon eyes lined with soot. He stood there, dumbfounded.

Frank: Who are you?

Worker: Water.
Jefferson’s grip finally gave out and he tumbled across the slippery shale wall of the chasm, landing with his face 6-inches from the window in the earth with a speeding river of black fluid. He was exhausted. Unable to speak. The others were barely hanging on.

Frank: Tell me your name and I’ll throw you some water.

Worker: I’m Al from the Boil Corporation. We boil soil to get oil.

Frank: Sounds like a lot of toil.

Al: Nice.

Frank: Let me guess, you are from somewhere far away.

Al: You could say that. Can I get that water?

Frank throws a canteen down into the chasm. Al catches it one-handed and gulps the contents with a savage thirst. You could see a glistening jugular on his neck, undulating with the bobbing laryngeal reflex. His face was draining sweat and soot onto his forearms. He reached up and swiped his brow and winced with discomfort as some of the grit got into his eyes.

Frank looked around the bleachers urgently for something to help him get down into the chasm without losing his footing. He crawled under the rows and found an old training rope strapped to one of the floor hooks. Probably someone forgot to take it down after the last pep rally and if only that someone could see what had unfolded this sunny Saturday. Frank stretched himself a few yards across the dusty wooden gym floor, grasped the rope and cut it with his pocket knife. Then he pulled himself back and knotted the rope around the bleacher legs closest to the edge. There was a solid 10-feet of slack, plus a 4-foot drop. Frank sized up the drop and hurled himself down the rope, his sneakers slipping and lapping at the chasms oily side-wall. The water vapor quickly permeated the rope, making it slippery. A wild-card frank could not have planned for. Frank loosened his grip and used the slippery rope to his advantage, gliding down like some cartoon firefighter. Then the rope ended. And Frank sailed through the misty black air. He hit the ground, immediately tucking himself into a roll in the direction of impact.

Jefferson: Frank is that you (through the mist).

Frank: I got ya buddy, just hang on.

Al: (Flips the canteen into his pack, and walks over nonchalantly, with the sure-footedness of a mountain goat). Here, Frank is it, but these grips over your sneakers.

Frank turns around, clasps the rubbery shoe-cover. They had gritty, sandy soles - a simple yet ingenious device. He walks ten more steps to Jefferson, clinging onto the rock with a surge of confidence. Frank grabs Jefferson by the torso and starts dragging him towards Al.

Al shuffles forward a bit and kneels down next to one o this mechanical drilling robots. The machine had 4 wheels and a hydraulic mechanism to raise and lower itself. It had an unusual familiarity with AI, almost like a golden retriever to its master. Al tinkered with a few settings on the side of the machine. In a whirr of electronics and satisfying clicks and turning of gears, a flat bed was formed on top of the machine with the semblance of a gurney.

Al: There you go partner, strap your friend on there.

Jefferson: To that thing?

Frank: What company did you say you worked for? I never heard of the “Boil Corporation.”

Al: Look I’ll explain more over lunch.

Jefferson: Lunch? (Sweaty, frustrated and panicking)

Frank: Whatever. Okay you’re going on board this.. thing, Jefferson.

Frank and Al put their hands together, hoisting Jefferson aboard the dog-like machine, buckling him in with the straps. When he was secure, the machine made an optimistic “brreeep” of affirmation. Frank knew if Al meant them any harm, he would’ve killed them already. This logic, of course, he would share with Jefferson or the others. The boys state of mind was already fragile. He wasn’t going to jeopardize it further.

The machine seemed to look at Al briefly for direction and approval before carefully gliding over the slippery rocks to the sheer face of the chasm wall, with Franks rope dangling off the side, covered in water dust and oil. The robot made a few clicks and whirrs, engaging its hydraulics to raise Jefferson 4-feet up to the rope. Al looked at the wall and then the robot and shook his head.

Al: Okay let’s bring out Ollie.

And with that, Al whistled loudly through his teeth, summoning a 6-wheel machine twice the size of the one carrying Jefferson. The 6-wheeler, Ollie, drove to the wall face and shot 3 sets of hooks into the rock face, each precisely 4-feet apart from one another. One at the top, and two mid-way from the ground they stood on. Then Al walked up to Ollie and climbed onto the chassis. The hooks had tension wires extending from them, anchored to Ollie. Al methodically tugged on each one, testing its strength. Then he produced a rescue ladder from a compartment on Ollie’s backside. Al slung the ladder over his back and began scaling the wall, guided by the tension wires in a remarkable display of strength and agility. Frank watched him rise above the dark mist of the chasm floor.

Al: (From the top) Alright guys you read?

Al drops the rescue ladder from the ledge of the side wall. Frank and Jefferson watch, dumbfounded as it unravels down the wall to the chasm floor.

Frank: Jeff are you arms and legs good? You go first.

Jefferson: Ankle broke on the way down. Whatever. Lets go before this whole place goes under.

With that Jefferson and Frank work their way up the ladder. Sean, from the opposite side of the chasm finds a diagonal seam in the wall, and slides down the widest portion. Al waves to the smaller robot and the machine starts roving to Sean, lowering its hydraulics for Sean to climb on.

To be continued…